


get you more acquainted

by Antares8



Series: The Pilgrim's Progress [17]
Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: Angst, Beast Wirt, Gen, Humor, Pure Unadulterated Stubbornness, The Unknown (Over the Garden Wall), Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:46:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28051881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antares8/pseuds/Antares8
Summary: Wirt implements another plan to prove that he's not like the Beast. The people of Kenningdole are not happy, but they'll get used to him being neighborly sooner or later. Probably. He hopes.
Relationships: Gregory & Wirt (Over the Garden Wall)
Series: The Pilgrim's Progress [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1051850
Comments: 49
Kudos: 211





	get you more acquainted

get you more acquainted

The Beast's legacy is more than scream-faced edelwoods and abscesses in the world filled near to bursting with corruption. He left behind a deep and abiding terror in the people of the Unknown, human-shaped and otherwise, who grow up hearing horrible tales about the things he did at the height of his power and even after. Almost all are cautionary tales about some fool wandering the woods at night and getting turned to edelwood, a scenario that must have occurred thousands upon thousands of times in the long history of the Unknown. But there is a story that the people of Kenningdole find particularly relevant:

Once upon a time, a group of young idiots decided to hunt down the Beast and kill him. They formed a hunting party and followed his song to a burnt clearing. Several of the hunters froze then, but two lifted their rifles and fired.

They actually managed to hit the Beast, both of them, their bullets tearing right through his thin chest, but neither lived long enough to enjoy their triumph. Huge nettles sprang up from the snowy floor, nettles and honey locust and firethorn, and the hunting party broke and scattered as two of its members died screaming. The survivors fled back home and counted themselves lucky.

They were wrong.

Two deaths were not enough to assuage the Beast's wrath.

Terrible beautiful songs flowed all through that first night. When the dawn (oddly dim, they said in their diaries, as though the sun itself feared to show its face with the Light-Eater afoot) cracked over the horizon, early risers sounded the alarm. A hedge had sprung up overnight, thorny and cruel and impenetrable. They were trapped.

The rot set in next. Grain, fruit preserves, pickled vegetables, maize, barley… all of it crumbled to reeking black slime, decaying into something foul and inedible in the space of mere days. Even bread was affected, and next year's seed was reduced to nothing.

Houses, too, were destroyed by the curse. Wooden walls thinned, tiny holes letting out precious heat. Beams weakened, leading to collapsed ceilings after a badly timed snowfall. Firewood changed to splinters and sawdust whenever one of the citizens tried to pick them up.

Then the fires went out. Shadows sprang from corners and crevasses to devour even the healthiest flames, leaving ash and frost and despair in their wake. Flint would not spark, tinder refused to catch. The survivors could only huddle under blankets, gripping their aching bellies and waiting.

And every time the sun set, the circling songs crept a little bit closer. And every time the sun rose, the snare of thorns had tightened a little bit more. And the nights were impossibly black, and the sun itself was dim, too dim, and every shadow in the town was a pool of frozen ink.

Oh, some people tried to escape. They'd go out with axes and hatchets, all bundled up against the cold, and take up arms against the Beast's noose. None returned, but new edelwood trees stretched out their twisted branches towards the sky.

Not a one of those four hundred men, women, and children survived. By the time spring rolled around, they'd all been turned to edelwood. No one had ever tried to resettle the area, and the hungry forest had swallowed it with unnatural speed.

_That_ is the sort of vengeance the Horned Lord can wreak against his enemies.

Thankfully for the town of Kenningdole, the current titleholder is much more forgiving than his predecessor. (Though if Wirt had _wanted_ to recreate that nightmare…. Well. It isn't like they'd be able to stop him. He knows it in his bones.)

The word of three citizens and three visiting witches is not enough to assuage those longstanding terrors, nor is the memory of how the new Beast did not harm them when he was exposed at Solstice Week. The Pilgrim is still an object of fear.

So when the first strains of his song float into town, the people are understandably upset.

* * *

Wirt has done many, many stupid things in his life. Some of them were impulsive and thoughtless, like jumping over a graveyard wall to get away from a playful police officer. Others were more drawn-out, like his treatment of Greg and Jonathan, but not actually premeditated. This particular act of idiocy, though, is very premeditated. He's agonized over it for almost a week.

The O'Sialias are as protected as his magic and the magic of three witches can make them. Nothing and no one can cause harm within a certain radius of their millhouse, and they have amulets to protect them when they venture outside. The charms are not infallible, but they will warn his friends of danger and weaken physical attacks and provide partial immunity from many spells, nor can they be removed by anyone but the wearer. Moreover, Wirt intends to visit them every week, just in case.

If someone really wants to hurt them, or to hurt Wirt through them… it would be difficult, but it could be done.

So now the best thing he can do for his dearest friend and her family is disperse peoples' desire to harm them. That means stopping the terrified mobs before they can form, which means reducing the terror, which means getting people used to him.

(There will always be greedy, power-hungry monsters who seek to control, to dominate. Wirt doesn't really know how to stop them from coming after him or the O'Sialias—except that's not quite true, is it. The Beast is fully capable of making examples. One day, inevitably, he'll have to face someone willing to kill or maim or ruin, and then he will use _every_ weapon at his disposal to protect his friends. Even the weapon of last resort, should it come to that.

Wirt tries very hard not to think about these things.)

So here he is, singing his way to Kenningdole, one of the far-too-many places that had formed an angry, frightened mob to drive him out. Sure enough, there's another posse forming on the outskirts of town, rifles at the ready. Sixteen people, including a few he recognizes from last time.

"GOOD MORNING!" Wirt yells as he rounds the bend. He pauses, hands clasped neatly at his front where the crowd can see them, and tries very hard to look friendly and nonthreatening. He's in his human form, so hopefully that helps.

Mayor Tuinstra steps forward, knuckles white around her shotgun. "Begone, Beast!" she commands. "You still aren't welcome here!"

"I know," Wirt calls back, not quite able to ignore the pang in his heart. "I just wanted to let you know that I'll be in the area for a while, blessing fields and tending trees and stuff, so if anybody, you know, needs anything, I'll be around. How's your firewood supplies?"

The crowd murmurs its confusion. Tuinstra hesitates as though searching the monster's words for a trap, then repeats, "You are _not_ welcome here!"

"I'm not going to hurt anyone. I'm just trying to… to be neighborly and show you that I'm not like the Beast."

No one is convinced by this stunning eloquence, which, fine. Wirt knew all along that they wouldn't be. His task is to chip away patiently, delicately, painstakingly at the at the ebony accretion of terror so that fresh seeds may fall, and take root, and flourish.

(It would have been nice, though.)

"Have a nice day!" Wirt finishes. He waves awkwardly and ducks back into his forest.

* * *

Wirt is soothing a sapling's winter dreams when Lottie and Bertram approach. Neither comes too close, which is understandable; Wirt _had_ sort of terrorized them a little last time they'd met. Still, they'd been trying to make certain that their relatives were safe, so Wirt rather likes them.

" _What_ are you doing here?" Lottie demands.

"I told everyone already, I'm fixing up the local forest, helping the fields, things like that. The other O'Sialias say hi, by the way."

"You do realize that they're planning a hunting party to drive you off?"

"Yeah, I kind of expected that." Wirt's been paying extra attention to his forest-sense today. Nobody can get within a quarter-mile without him knowing.

"So why are you doing this?" Bertram asks.

"Because the only way I can get people to stop fearing me is to get them used to me." Wirt's fists clench. "Because everybody's been afraid of the Beast for far too long, but his reign of terror is _over_ now and no one seems to understand that." He meets Lottie's eyes, then Bertram's. "Because I hope that this will help."

The siblings exchange glances, expressions, an entire silent conversation, before Lottie says, "So in order to make people less frightened of you, you're deliberately terrorizing an entire village?"

Wirt flinches at the word 'terrorizing' but manages to defend himself. "Isn't it better to get the fear over and done with as soon as possible? If I can just show people I'm not going to come after them for Solstice Week, they won't have to spend the rest of their lives awaiting my terrible dark vengeance."

"They think that this _is_ your terrible dark vengeance," Lottie points out.

"Do _you_?"

"What?" Both siblings are confused.

"Do _you_ think that me being here is some convoluted scheme to get back at everybody?"

Another silent conversation. Wirt waits. Then, reluctantly, "Well, not really…."

"Because you got to know me better," the Pilgrim says.

They don't have an answer for that.

* * *

The hunting party sets out at the next day's dawn, with hours of light ahead. They follow the sound of Wirt's song to a half-circle of berry bushes whose roots need straightening out.

He knows they're coming, of course, and dons his human shape as soon as they enter his awareness. When they're close enough to take aim (surprisingly quiet for such a large group, but approaching him from _upwind_. They must not realize how good his nose is), Wirt pulls shadows together. Pure darkness blankets an area of about fifty or sixty square feet, muddling their aim. Wirt takes advantage of their momentary confusion to slip out of the unnatural shade and hide himself behind a venerable oak.

It turns out that planning these things beforehand is really useful. Who knew?

"Good morning," Wirt says again. He's close enough to the black veil that they'll think he's still inside it. "How are you guys doing? Do any of you need firewood? I figured out this neat trick where I can break up logs with magic."

They're muttering to each other, unaware that he can hear them.

"Should we shoot?"

"No! We'll just miss, and we can't afford to have him turn hostile."

"But if we all fired at once—"

"We'd still miss."

"Assuming he even allows our guns to work."

"Maybe we should fan out?"

"Ever heard of 'divide and conquer'? We have to stick together or he'll pick us off one by one."

"I'm not going to hurt you," Wirt calls. "I'd just really appreciate it if you returned the favor. Please?"

" _What_ is he playing at?"

"I've no idea."

"Maybe we should play along, pretend we're falling for his tricks."

"…But what if it's not a trick?"

"Of course it's a trick! Like father, like son."

Wirt grimaces. He _hates_ that rumor, absolutely hates it. He almost lets on that he can hear every word they're saying just to contradict that wretched, hateful, appalling smear.

"I don't think that he's actually related to the Beast." Wirt smiles. Thank you, random townsperson!

"Does it matter? He's still _a_ Beast."

"But he killed the last one, didn't he?"

"If you have any questions you'd like to ask, I'm happy to answer them!" Wirt hollers.

One of the townsfolk calls back, "What are you doing here?" More quietly, she tells her comrades, "Let's try to keep him talking, see if we can pinpoint where his voice is coming from."

"Do you mean here specifically or 'here' as in nearby Kenningdole?"

"The first one!"

Wirt almost gestures to the bushes but stops himself at the last moment. "Their roots are all tangled. I'm trying to unravel them." It's slow going, too, made all the slower because he doesn't dare devote his whole attention to the task. "I'll probably be at it most of the day. Good thing it's not too windy, right?" Because small talk about the weather had sort of worked back at the millhouse, at least a little bit. Here and now, the awkward question startles the townsfolk into silence, which is a marked improvement over them conspiring against him. Wirt decides to count it as a win.

Should he keep talking about the weather? No, that would be rambling, and he doesn't want them to think he's an _idiot_ , just friendly. But maybe if he just says something small and non-rambly, then one of them can answer and they can have an actual conversation. Except he can't say anything else about the weather now because he's been silent too long and—

"We'll be watching you, Beast!" the mayor proclaims. To her own people, she murmurs, "There's no use staying here. Come on. Let's go."

"Have a nice day!" Wirt calls as they retreat.

They don't answer, but they didn't shoot him either. He'll consider it a draw.

* * *

There is an edelwood about two miles from the town's eastern border. Wirt comes to it after midnight. He runs his hands along the bark, feeling the outline of an agonized face.

"Sorry I couldn't get here earlier," he apologizes, "but it will take a lot of concentration to lay you to rest, and I really didn't want to risk it when I knew they'd be coming after me soon."

The edelwood does not respond.

Wirt closes his glowing eyes and sinks deep into his magic, seeking the poisoned soul deep within.

When dawn peeks over the horizon, the edelwood's faces have begun to fade.

* * *

Things progress more or less smoothly for a few days. Wirt hangs around the outskirts of Kenningdole, singing as he goes about his work. A couple more hunting parties come after him, but no shots are fired. Each time Wirt catches them, he is polite and friendly and a little bit awkward. Each time, the hunters become more confused.

So, six days after his arrival, the Pilgrim decides to step things up a notch. He finds dead trees and splits them into manageable portions, then hauls the resulting logs onto the roadside just barely outside of town. He goes to living trees, too, and prunes dead branches from them without waking a single one from its winter dreams. This joins the roadside pile, which is becoming quite sizeable.

It's grueling, tiring work, but Wirt spends most of the day doing it. (There's always at least one armed townsperson watching him, but he ignores them as best he's able.) When night comes, he retreats to his forest to tend the plants, but when the sun rises again, he's back to gathering wood. He wants people to see him bringing them gifts.

The Pilgrim is hauling another armload of lumber when he notices that there's a gaggle of children up ahead, arguing with the guard, and another child crouched behind the log pile. He slows, hesitant. The adults have come to sort of tolerate him (or maybe it's just resignation) coming near them, but kids? He doubts they'd be so sanguine if he gets too close to children.

With no better ideas, Wirt begins to sing. He doesn't like singing quite so close to settlements, but this will give the kids enough warning to get away.

The guard gestures sharply. The kids surrounding him scatter further into the village, but the girl hiding behind the woodpile stays in place. Wirt keeps up his slow pace and conspicuous singing, wondering when she'll run away. Maybe she's frozen in terror? No. From what he can see of her expression, she's excited, not petrified. Should he tell the guard about her? He's almost there, his long legs devouring the distance in spite of his deliberate lagging.

He'll just… pretend to not see her and keep his eyes on the town. "Hello!" he shouts, as has become his custom whenever he gets too close to a townsperson. He leans over to deposit the wood.

The kid leaps out of hiding, races up to him. She grabs a fistful of his cloak as she passes, screaming, "I TOUCHED THE BEAST!" Then she's making for the buildings like her life depends on it.

The guard panics and shoots. He has good aim; a bullet grazes Wirt's leg as he scurries aside. Another shot follows almost immediately.

"Have a nice day!" Wirt calls automatically, another habit he's trained into himself.

Then he's gone.

* * *

Now that one preteen has proved her courage by confronting the dreaded forest monster, other kids want to do the same. There are two of them huddled in the trees by the road to Kenningdole. They're close enough to make a quick escape and so that their peers can bear witness, but far enough that the guards (there are two of them now) can't see them through the evening gloom.

Wirt does not want to be shot again. He pauses far away from the kids, looks directly at them, one eyebrow quirked in question. "Do your parents know you're doing this?" he asks lowly.

The slightly taller boy makes the ward-evil.

Wirt softens, sighs. "Just wait to do the touching thing until I've put this down. I'd rather not have an armful of firewood when those guys start shooting at me again." He raises his voice, shouts a greeting to the guards. They don't reply, but none of them ever have.

The Pilgrim lays down his burden and retreats, steadfastly not looking at where the kids are hiding.

They burst out of their covert like startled hares. Two hands slap at Wirt's cloak as they rush by. Wirt bounds forward and to his left, into the treeline, just in time to avoid the guards' reflexive shots.

He really hopes that this doesn't become a _thing_.

* * *

It does not, thankfully, become a thing. This is partly because Wirt starts leaving the firewood at different locations, chosen at random each time, and partly because so many people are keeping a close watch on the kids. Wirt settles into a routine for a few days and is pleased to observe that people have actually started taking his offerings. Admittedly, this is more likely due to a sudden cold snap than anything Wirt's done, but he's counting every single little baby step as progress.

The cold snap has another lovely side effect: no hunting parties for four days, and the one that eventually comes to harass him is more a token effort than anything else.

The weather gives Wirt an idea, and he spends most of a day visiting barns on the outskirts of town, strengthening the walls as best he can with such old wood. He stoppers holes, encourages the boards to lie neatly, chases off the occasional spot of mold. The animals, at least, aren't afraid of him. When the cold snap ends and he comes along with a few handfuls of fresh grass and clover—not much, just a bite or two for each—they're so loud in their appreciation that Wirt worries about waking up their owners.

(Yes, he's technically breaking into peoples' barns in the dead of night. He just… wants the animals, at least, to like him. They don't look at him like he's a monster.

And yes, he's aware that that's pathetic, thank you very much. He is very well aware.)

* * *

The next day, a trio of travelers approaches Kenningdole. Other than the regular mailpersons/ newspaper deliverers, who make their rounds twice a week, they're the first visitors to come to town since the Pilgrim's arrival. Wirt shifts to his human form and pulls on his shoes that he'd almost forgotten he has and joins them on the road. They have a perfectly nice, pleasant conversation for the thirty or so minutes it takes to get to town.

Wirt hesitates when they get too close. No one's come to chase him away yet, which is a pleasant surprise. They're probably keeping watch for a single figure rather than part of a group. Should he go in? He probably shouldn't. But how's he supposed to explain it to these guys? 'Sorry, I can't go into town because I'm actually the Beast's successor and these guys are all terrified of me. Don't be scared, though, I almost never turn people into trees!'

…He might not have thought this one through.

"Something wrong, lad?" asks Mr. Guthrie.

"They, um, don't really like me in Kenningdole."

"Whyever not?" demands Mrs. Guthrie.

Wirt opens his mouth, but the words lodge in his throat. He finds himself thinking of how he'd been exposed during Solstice Week, how the people who had been so friendly towards him were suddenly hostile and terrified, and he can't do it. He can't explain. Instead, he mumbles something about it being a long story and darts off before they can stop him.

The Pilgrim only stops once he reaches the freed edelwood. Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes, and he wipes them away almost angrily. He shouldn't be anywhere near this upset. He'd known the little family for thirty, thirty-five minutes and had spent most of that time listening to the parents chatter on about where they'd acquired their wares. Their reaction shouldn't matter so much to him.

But it does, so he pulls the shadows over himself like a blanket and sinks into the snow, back against the edelwood. He's not in human form anymore, and his antlers are so very heavy.

He stays there for a long, long time.

* * *

Wirt has provided a ridiculous amount of firewood in the last couple of weeks. It's time for a change, a break. He takes a book from his satchel, leans back against a tree, and starts reading in full view of Kenningdole.

Well, he tries to read. It's a bit hard to focus when he half-expects to be run out of town.

Almost an hour passes before Lottie O'Sialia approaches him. "What are you doing?" she asks.

Wirt slips a bookmark between the pages and closes his tome. "Reading."

"Yes, but why here?"

"It's a comfortable tree."

Lottie's mouth twists in a grimace. "There are a lot of people who are getting uncomfortable with you so close to town."

Wirt thinks of the Guthries, his fingers tightening along his book, and forcefully expels the memory. "And they elected you to come out and chase me away?"

"I elected myself," she retorts. At Wirt's raised eyebrow, she admits, "With a bit of encouragement. Not much, though."

"I'm not hurting anyone."

"I know," Lottie says, and there's sympathy in her eyes.

"Well," Wirt sighs, "you talked to me. I'm going to stay here for a bit anyways, get some more reading in." He pats his book. "I don't suppose Kenningdole has a library?"

"No."

"Pity. I have to find a library somewhere." He almost starts reading again, thinks better of it at the last second. "Since you're here, how _are_ things in town?"

"I don't think that anybody's having nightmares about you anymore."

The Pilgrim jerks back as though struck. "Oh. That's… that's good. That's what I wanted."

"And… most of the children have figured out that you won't come to devour them if they don't eat their vegetables."

"That's good too." There's a lump in Wirt's throat; it's hard to talk. He hopes that Lottie doesn't notice.

"But you need to speed things up."

"Huh?"

Lottie flushes. " _I_ can see that you're not going to go on a rampage, but most people are just waiting for the other shoe to drop. If you have any plans other than 'hang around until nobody's scared,' you need to do them as soon as possible."

"I… okay." Wirt looks down at his book again. Freezes, inhumanly still. Then he smiles. "Actually, I _do_ have an idea."

* * *

Agatha stops humming as she rounds the corner. There's a tall young man leaning against her work building, a letter clutched in his hands, a red lantern hanging from his hip. "Got a story for me, eh?" She unlocks the door. "Well, come on inside, lad. How long have you been out in the cold?"

"I don't really mind the weather," the youth assures her. "I just—here." He shoves his letter into her hands. "I'd better get going now."

"You're sure? I've got tea, coffee, and I think there's a few scones hidden around here somewhere. You're too skinny, you need some fattening up."

His smile is sad. "Thank you, but you wouldn't make the offer if you knew who I was. Oh! But feel free to, you know, _not_ publish it if it doesn't make the cut. I'm not trying to pressure or threaten you into anything. No consequences, not from me, at least, no matter what you choose to do." He's been backing away throughout the entire little spiel. Now, with a quick little wave, he ducks around the corner, presumably to go home.

Agatha hopes that the young weirdo doesn't have too far to go. Her newspaper serves five smaller towns in addition to its base in Bosky, and he could be from any of them. She hopes he makes it home all right, because it looks like there's a blizzard coming.

She pours herself a bit of coffee before opening up the young man's epistle. Thankfully, she swallows the drink before actually reading. Otherwise, she likely would have spat it all over the letter.

Could it be true? He certainly fits the descriptions that have come out of Kenningdole: tall and thin, brown-haired and prone to dressing all in black. But she can't possibly have invited _the Pilgrim_ himself in for tea.

Perhaps it's a prank? She honestly has no idea. It's tasteless if it is.

She has to _know_. It's a trait that's gotten her into her fair share of trouble over the years, but it also got her the _Bosky Herald_.

Agatha's out the door and halfway to the forest road before she thinks better of it. Then she realizes that she may or may not be following a Beast into its own demesne and freezes. That is… exceptionally reckless, even by her standards.

But then she thinks it over a bit more and realizes that there are really only two possibilities. If the boy is pranking her, then she's in no danger so long as she sticks to the road. If he _is_ the Pilgrim, though, then he wants her to publish his story about the edelwood witch. She's not in any danger then, either.

Probably.

But it's broad daylight, sun glinting off the snow, and she'll just stay on the road. No sense being a complete fool.

"Halloo?" she calls. "Halloo! I need to speak with you!" There's no one around to judge her, so she adds his title: "Ho, Pilgrim!"

"Yes?"

Agatha jumps nearly out of her skin when he steps out from between the trees. Stars, where had he been hiding?

Then her brain starts working again and she realizes that this might not have been the best idea. "I—ah," she stammers, "I just need to verify a few things before publication."

The boy who is either the Beast's heir or a very dedicated jokester stares at her unblinkingly. His eyes catch the light strangely, as if they should be glowing. Her skin prickles.

"Like what?" he asks.

"Your identity, for one," she tells him.

"Is this enough?" He stretches out his hand; shadows coat it like a velvet glove, reaching up his arm.

Agatha jumps backward, heart pounding. Her mouth is dry, so she just nods dumbly.

The shadows disperse. "Anything else?" the Voice of the Night asks.

Agatha swallows. "No. No, that will be all." She's shaking, she notices dimly.

Those too-bright eyes seem to dim. "Right. I'll just get going then."

He slips back into the trees, leaving Agatha alone with the story of a lifetime.

* * *

By the time the newspaper comes out, Wirt has gotten to the point where people no longer look ready to run screaming when he gets too close. Guards only show up half the times he comes close, and he's managed to get within twenty or thirty feet of the outermost buildings in daytime without anybody panicking. So he's able to surreptitiously eavesdrop on some peoples' reactions.

His story focuses mostly on the night he'd turned a witch to edelwood, and the confrontation at Solstice Week, with a few additional details like 'I am not in any way related to the Beast, _please_ stop saying I'm his son' thrown in for good measure. The people of Kenningdole would be able to see that he'd told the truth about Solstice Week (albeit without specifically naming anyone), so hopefully they'd realize he was being honest about the rest of it, too.

With his story finally out there, Wirt decides to push the boundaries just a little bit further. He walks those last few feet into town and wanders a couple minutes through the streets. When the shouts of "Begone, Beast!" begin ringing out, he spins on his heel and lopes back to the forest. A few hours later, he repeats the process on the other side of town. This time, he manages five whole minutes of ambling before someone starts throwing rocks at him.

It's a small, sad victory, but a victory it is.

* * *

Wirt has been so focused on the town that January flies by, and then it's almost Greg's birthday and he panics slightly about presents for a few hours until he decides to grow his brother a checkers set from white oak and walnut. Checkers is a lot less active than Greg's usual games, but he customizes the game pieces, making pale frogs and dark tigers instead of the usual boring circles. Each one is a little bit different from the others, and the miniature crowns he crafts are unique as well. If Greg doesn't like the game, he can always just play with the little figurines. If he likes it, then Wirt can maybe make him chess pieces when he's older. Maybe he'll pitch it as something Greg can do with his grandparents.

Wrapping paper isn't really a thing in the Unknown, but they do have plain brown paper that's mostly used when someone needs to ship a parcel long-distance. Wirt's still got a few pennies from Solstice Week. It should be more than enough to buy a nice velvet pouch and some of that cheap brown paper, assuming he can find anyone willing to sell to him.

He wonders what would happen if he took on deer-shape, but he knows that nobody would be fooled. That form is inky-furred and pastel-eyed, resembling nothing so much as a turtle-eater who hadn't become horrifically misshapen.

(Maybe, if the checkers set doesn't go over well, he can salvage Greg's birthday gift by shifting shapes and offering him a ride. That would be his last resort, though. His brother likes deer jokes just as much as Beatrice, and Mom and Jonathan might flat-out faint. They're becoming accustomed to his being a magical freak, but Wirt doesn't want to scare them away with anything too blatant. Maybe next year, if Greg lets up on the deer jokes.

So probably not, then.)

Wirt approaches Kenningdole at a leisurely pace, giving them plenty of time to react. He's halfway to their marketplace when the opposition arrives.

The Pilgrim fixes a plastic smile to his face. "Good morning, Mr. Wilkinson. How are you doing today?"

"Worse for your presence, you monster."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that." He's not. The man is remarkably unpleasant. "Is there a place where I can—no. No, we've been over this before. You still don't get to attack me. Do you want me to ruin _this_ ax too? That's what I thought. Now. Like I was saying, is there a place where I can pick up some postage paper and a pouch about this big?"

Wilkinson makes the ward-evil, as if that's suddenly going to start working now. It does not.

Wirt folds his arms, narrowing his brown human eyes. "The longer it takes me to find the place, the longer I'll have to stay."

Wilkinson pulls out a little silver bell and starts ringing it wildly. Something about the sound makes Wirt's nose itch. He pushes back at the sensation automatically. The itching stops.

"Okay, fine, I'll ask someone else. Have a nice day." He glides away.

"AND STAY AWAY, BEAST!" the old man roars.

A couple more minutes of walking brings him to the general store. Wirt pushes inside, hoping against hope that the storekeeper won't react with abject terror.

The fellow behind the counter glances up at the sound of the bell before turning back to his book. Wirt blinks owlishly. He's in his human form, but he hadn't used his true shape in Kenningdole since Solstice Week. The shopkeeper must not have processed what he'd seen.

It's refreshing to be greeted with complete indifference. Wirt grins, then sighs. How far he has fallen if such scraps tasted of ambrosia.

Wirt finds the little pouch, the postage paper, and, after a moment's thought, a bag of hard candies. He digs out the correct amount of money, realizes that he doesn't know a thing about how taxation works here (or the government, for that matter), and adds another dime to the pile. That's probably enough.

He goes to the counter and clears his throat. The storekeeper looks up. Freezes.

Wirt forces another smile. "Just getting a few things for my brother, that's all."

The man draws in a garbled breath.

"I, uh, already added up the prices. I don't know about taxes, though. Probably went overboard. Still, you can keep the change. Assuming there is any. So. I guess I'll just leave you the money, take my stuff, and go back to the forest. Have a nice day."

"Thank you for your patronage sir have a good day we hope you come again," the shopkeeper blurts.

Wirt doubts that last bit very much, but he smiles and nods on his way out. The poor guy looks ready to faint. Hopefully he isn't too traumatized.

(Reginald stays behind the counter for a few dazed moments, only returning to reality when the constable comes to interrogate him. He recounts his brush with death in stutters, then goes to the pub, gets extremely drunk, and tells the other tavern-goers a very different story about his encounter with the Beast. Thankfully, everyone knows that he exaggerates to a ridiculous degree when he's drunk. Besides, they'd have noticed if the Pilgrim had been chased out of town cursing Reginald's name at the top of his lungs and vowing never to return.)

* * *

"Is this checkers?" asks the birthday boy, brow scrunching in confusion. He's sitting in the back seat of the Whelans' car, which is parked in a cemetery's parking lot. It's a cold evening, and very dark. Amy and Jonathan hadn't wanted to risk going down the hill, so Wirt had come to meet them here instead.

"It's _custom_ checkers," Wirt replies, hoping that that makes it more impressive. "Frogs versus tigers!"

Greg's expression turns impressed.

"I figured that you could maybe play it with your grandparents, you know, show off how smart you're getting."

The birthday boy nods. "Yeah. Grandpa really likes checkers, right, Dad?"

"Right." Jonathan twists around in the driver's seat. "Oh, those pieces are really neat, Wirt. Where'd you find it?"

Wirt blushes black and mumbles something about making them himself.

"…Do you mean that you've picked up whittling or that you made them with magic?"

"The second one."

"That's amazing!" Greg declares. "Do you have any other cool new powers, Wirt?"

His brother doesn't need to know about the shapeshifting yet. "A couple things, yeah, but I still haven't cracked shadow walking."

"You'll get there, brother o'mine," Greg assures him. Perhaps it's Wirt's imagination, but he thinks that there's something knowing in his little brother's eyes. "Don't worry. You'll get there."

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Still don't own OTGW.
> 
> The title of this work comes from "Old Black Train" in Chapter 9 of the show.
> 
> Greg's birthday is yet another thing that I've taken from the marvelous skimmingthesurface, who decided that he'd been born on February 2.
> 
> Stay safe, everyone, and happy holidays!


End file.
